


Keep Up

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Blind Character, F/M, Series, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: As an indentured servant, you never thought you'd make it out of town, much less off-world. You don't really need your vision to see a priceless opportunity when a Mandalorian presents it to you, though.Takes place before Don't Go Far.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Kuiil (Star Wars) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 29
Kudos: 570





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First official installment of this series. Thank you so much who read and left me comments! I’m very touched. I wanted to really take some time with exploring a blind character who shares non-verbal similarities to the Mandalorian, and other ways of communication beyond eye contact. Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read it!

When you laid awake at night, you hadn’t considered your fate would be determined by handfuls of imperial credits. That your life hung in the balance between payments exchanged underhandedly in the back corners of the crowded cantina over watered down drinks became more believable, though, the longer you lasted in servitude. It was easier if you thought yourself not human, not one of the patrons whose gazes followed your movements.

You couldn’t see them, but you could  _ feel _ them. 

It somehow made it a little worse to your pride just the same, and a lot harder to ignore.

You would never be called a slave out in the open, because you knew the ramifications of such an error in this place. Others working alongside you knew, too, so not only did they try  _ not _ to talk about you, but they avoided you at all cost. The laws of slavery were a prickly topic for some people, and those around you didn’t want to chance unhappy customers by a small slip of the tongue. You weren’t quite far enough in the outer rim to escape even honor, it seemed.

So, at night, you would think of your old life that was gentle and kind, and you’d pretend that you were still in your old room, in your old bed.

It wasn’t the hardest existence, you’d give them that. They treated you like some otherworldly thing, a blind woman who could wait tables and fetch drinks. As if a disability was a personality trait. Men’s underestimation typically worked in your favor, and you had learned that lesson well. It was not unheard of for workers to be punished for missteps, and you found it easy to claim the fault as your own. The wilting flower was not so far from the truth, once, and when you ducked your head and clasped your hands in apology, no one was made an example of.

As far as organic lives went, you were  _ expensive _ . Not more than a droid, you figured, but still worth enough not to deal damage to, and anything that damaged the worth of property wouldn’t be tolerated. That was a bit of armor you savored wearing.

You stood near the bar using a rag to clean glasses. You couldn’t quite make out a lot inside the cantina, as it tended to be darker, but your impaired vision did afford you shapes and shadows. With more light, you would be able to make out more, but since arriving on this dusty little rock of a planet months ago, you didn’t feel motivated to exactly  _ acclimate _ . You simply listened to the dull thrum of life around you, conversations rising and swelling, the clatter of glass and the slosh of drink. When the door would open, fresh air and light would blow in with bits of sand in the wind, and you could taste the dry climate sticking in your mouth.

Stacking the next glass carefully on the back of the bar, you became aware of someone coming to stand across from you. They didn’t speak, simply stood at the bar, and you wondered where the other girl was that usually took drink orders. A prickle rose up on the back of your neck the longer the stranger stood across from you, and you carefully refolded the rag in your hands, inclining your head upwards to the shadow.

“I’m looking for someone,” said the newcomer, his voice low and pleasantly modulated. Your eyebrows rose, and you hid a grimace when he spoke the owner’s name.

Never a good sign.

You paused, thinking of the back, dingy rooms where the man in question usually haunted, and you took a deep breath. “I can find him,” you answered levelly. You paused, laying a hand on the edge of the bar before turning away. “May I get you anything while you wait?”

There was a beat before he said, “No...thank you.”

_ Manners _ , you admired with a small smile. You nodded once and turned, but at the same time the absent barkeep in question came stumbling out from the back, knocking into you and overturning nearly every glass you’d managed to clean. It was such an epic sweep, you’d think later, that you still weren’t sure how she managed to break so many things and retain a job. 

Both of you went down like rocks and sprawled across the floor, shattered glass dusting your robes and laying like invisible teeth on the ground. You sat up, cringing when you could feel sharp pricks through the fabric of your clothes. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, reaching out a hand to the girl. You can make out her shape, though she can’t seem to be still.

“He’s going to end me for this!” she hissed, her voice laced with anger and shame, and the two of you begin sweeping the glass up hurriedly with your hands.

“Blame it on me,” you mutter, wincing when a shard pricks your palm. You pull yourself up by the bar, sweeping more of it with the sole of your boot to make a pathway. 

“I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you will,” you answer primly, turning and grappling for a serving tray. You pile the glass on it and begin chucking it into the trash. “Go find him, leave the mess with me.”

“But-”

“He has someone waiting for him.” Your whisper must draw her eyes up, and you nod your head to the side where you know the newcomer still stands on the other side of the bar. You’re not quite sure what makes her scramble away so quickly, but you’re grateful she does. As well-meaning as the girl is, you doubt she’ll last much longer in an establishment where she’s constantly underfoot.

You dust away as much glass as you can so you can kneel without impaling your knees, then reach up onto the bar for the rag you’d had. There’s a moment where you feel nothing but smooth wood, until a gloved hand bumps into yours. You freeze, blinking, but then the rag is pressed under your fingers. 

For some reason, the silent help makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you murmur and duck back down to use the rag to sweep glass up onto the tray. You can hear when the girl and the owner return, for he’s painfully loud and obnoxious to boot. The barkeep seems to be trying to explain away the accident with the glasses quickly and distract him with the fact he has a visitor, and she’s lucky he’s simple because it works like a charm. 

You don’t quite catch what he says under his breath, but you flinch back when he kicks some glass behind the bar, almost hitting you in the face. You turn quickly, brushing it off and growing irate. This isn’t how you wanted your day to go, kneeling on the filthy floor and dumping the tray into the trash again.

“Mando, good to see you in these parts again. Come with me.”

You rise up once they’re gone, sighing deeply and feeling tense. All the chaos that typically clamored in a cantina wasn’t good for your nerves or patience, you decided, tossing the rag in a bin to be cleaned later. You fetch a broom, now that the barkeep has returned and begins taking orders, and you sweep the floor so no one will step on any wayward glass. The chore is nearly done when she returns, sliding a tray towards you.

“Take it to the boss and the Mandalorian.”

Frowning, you slowly set the broom aside and turn to the tray, feeling the drinks to make sure they’re balanced before you lift it up. A Mandalorian. That would explain the modulated helmet, you supposed. You try to think of what you’d heard of them in the past, what you had read. If you remembered it right, they didn’t remove their face coverings in public, so the drink seemed...inappropriate.

Possibly even  _ rude _ .

Moving with care, you thread the needle of tables and patrons, their shapes and shadows blending before your pale eyes. You follow the sound of the owner’s voice, loud and barking, and you only hesitate once.

“...not for sale.”

From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.

“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like  _ you _ .”

This was not the first time he’d implied such things, and it was not the first time you’d had to school your face from cringing over the alcohol you served. Ire simmered in your breast, and bile threatened to burn the inside of your mouth, just the same.

A terse, modulated voice crossed the table in a quiet mutter. “Let her go.”

You swallowed as the fingers tightened around your wrist before they vanished completely, and you did everything in your power not to snatch your hand back. You let your arms fall to your sides, controlling every tense muscle, and curled your fingers at your sides. The silence that follows is cold and unforgiving, but you feel hot with embarrassment. 

The quiet sing of steel signals the Mandalorian standing from the table. You expect something more explosive, for the owner’s rudeness, but perhaps it wasn’t worth it to someone like him. Starting fights in bars with small minded men at the edge of the rim probably wasn’t on his to-do list, you imagined. 

You listen for the retreating sound of boots against the floor, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there is a firm  _ clunk _ that hits the table in front of you, and suddenly all the heat that was blooming in your face drains.

“You can’t be serious,” the owner laughs, but the visitor says nothing. “This is a third of what I am owed for keeping her, much less buying her.”

“And you won’t find anyone else with the credits to make a better offer,” the Mandalorian answers shortly, impatience now evident through the modulator of his helmet. He leans down near the table, and you think he must be intimidating a sight to shut the owner up so quickly. “Not from anyone with a taste for it.”

Sickness curls in your belly as the moment stretches into silence, time keeping you hostage as the two men stare each other down. It must be difficult trying to glare at someone’s face you can’t see, you think, when you’re not used to it. The thought is ludicrous, but it’s distracting enough to keep you from falling apart in the middle of the crowded cantina while you’re being traded like cargo.

The quiet clatter of the credits inside a pouch is retracted from the table, and a lump grows in your throat as you realize you’ve just been bought. Paid for. 

It never felt like something that would happen, not  _ again _ . 

“Get out,” the owner snaps, and you flinch at the words so ruthlessly directed towards you when you’d been ignored up until then. It was enough to make you take a step back, against your better judgment, but the Mandalorian was behind you and seemed to be made entirely of steel and iron.

“You forgetting something?” 

You hear a growl from the man still seated at the table before he tosses something onto the table, letting it clatter. You feel the man behind you tense before he carefully tucks away whatever was just exchanged. Your mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the details.

Swallowing, you’re almost too nervous to move when boot steps begin walking away. The cantina’s noises swell around you, and it occurs to you that you’ll never have to step foot into the crowded, dirty establishment again.

You scramble to catch up with the man who just traded credits for your life, fighting past patrons and listening for the sound of armor. It’s a quiet slide of steel that would almost be drowned out by everything else if you weren’t paying attention. Stepping outside into the bright sunlight makes you wince, having been so used to the dingy shade of the bar, but you can see the Mandalorian’s own shadow fully for the first time.

Standing a few inches taller than yourself, his shape isn’t as bulky as you expected. It’s broad, in your sight, and even though there’s a hum and bustle of people coming and going all around you, he stands completely still. 

“Keep up.”

Then he’s walking off again, and you’re hurrying after him. The few inches he has on you has you huffing to keep up, and you’re so focused on not losing him in the crowd that you don’t have time to be overwhelmed by all the smells and sounds of the market. The sun is bright enough you can keep his shadow in your line of sight, and you’re grateful he doesn’t try to guide you by the hand. It feels like a small but precious dignity to stretch your legs and taste dust and dry air without feeling like you’re being led on a leash.

It’s when you pass from the market, then the city, that the noises of other organic life seem to fade, and all you can hear is the wind and the whipping of your robes and his cloak. 

Suddenly, he stops and turns towards you. Heart climbing into your throat, you curl your hands at your sides and ready for the worst, but what happens next is unexpected.

“I didn’t...did you leave...things behind?”

_ What? _

Your face must betray your confusion, because he goes on. “Back there. Did you...you didn’t bring anything with you.”

You think of the spare dress you were allotted that felt rough and scratchy against your skin, of the broken comb and the lone, threadbare ribbon you used to fix your hair whenever you had work that needed a bit more elbow grease.

You shake your head quickly, and you both stand in silence. The arid surroundings make you feel hot beneath your clothes, and you wish you could gauge what he was thinking. Most people talk...well, most people tend to run their mouths around you. As if you needed everything narrated, simply because you couldn’t see.

In fact, the silence is a relief, like a balm you didn’t know you needed for a burn that you’d been ignoring for too long. 

You hear him grunt under his helmet, almost too quiet for the modulator to pick up, and he turns and begins to trek again. His boots hit sand, and you follow as gracefully as you can in soft soles that weren’t meant for anything more than being indoors. It’s easy to see him now, his general shape, and you can tell when he stops and when he starts walking again, giving you a chance not to fall behind.

There’s a long stretch of time, perhaps more than an hour, where you both walk in silence. You pull the hood of your robe up over the crown of your head, the sun beginning to sting and make your eyes sore and face burn. You’re watching his boots, following the path they make, but when you look up again, a large, terrifying dark shape looms in front of you.

You must make a sound, because he turns to see you hesitating, taking a step away.

The Mandalorian seems to consider something before approaching you, and when the breeze ruffles your clothes, you can smell leather and sweat off of him.

“Hold out your hand,” he says, then adds quietly, “Please.”

There’s a shift of fabric before you feel something small and cool press into your palm. “The trigger, connected to the transmitter chip they injected when you were...bought,” he explains to your baffled expression. 

The thing that could kill you instantly.

Your stomach drops and your ears begin to ring, holding the small round object in your hand. When you speak, your voice is hoarse with unshed tears. “W-Why…? What do you want me...to do with it?”

“Keep it,” he grunts, shifting his weight between his legs. “Until I can neutralize the chip.”

Your free hand drifts to your neck, blinking hard against the wind as it begins to pick up. Sand begins to dust your lashes and catch in your mouth, but his words have left your throat bone dry all on their own. “I don’t understand.” He didn’t respond, and you shake your head, dropping your sight level to where your hand holds the trigger. “Why-?”

“I don’t need a slave. I don’t  _ want _ a slave.” You think you can hear a frown, somewhere behind the steel of his armor. “I need someone to help me on my ship, and I can pay you for the work.”

Confusion turns to shock, because it’s such a blow to what you thought would be a normal day that you can’t control the muscles in your body anymore. Your knees feel like they’ll buckle, and he’ll leave you there in the sand for the sad, small creature you feel like you’ve become. That this is all some kind of cruel joke.

When you don’t respond, that hesitation returns to his voice. “Unless...you wanted to stay...here.” 

“No. Never.” Your lip quivers, though you don’t think you’ll cry. You hope you won’t cry. You can’t quite understand what you’re feeling, but it’s visceral and causing you to tremble like a fever. 

There’s a quiet, metal tinged sigh, and you think it sounds as relieved as you feel. When he starts walking again, the muffled sound of his boots in sand change to striking against metal, and you’re careful as you step up, gingerly toeing up what seems to be a ramp. The large shadow looming ahead was a ship, you realized, only ever having boarded one once before.

When you reach the top, his voice is quiet. “There’s a step down.”

Heart thrumming in your breast, you reach out with a shaking hand to lean against the side of the door, your boots carefully settling on the metal flooring. Inside is just as dark and cold as a cave, but it’s a blessed feeling compared to the dry heat of the sun outside. 

“This is yours?” you ask, pushing the hood of your robe back and feeling sand fall from the cowl. You can hear a minuscule echo of your voice inside the metal walls. He makes a noncommittal grunt in your direction, moving about in the dim lighting. You hear the flip of a switch and the ramp behind you retracts, followed by the hatch closing you in true darkness.

Your orientation blurs, and your shoulders rise to your ears with tension. You wait for some instruction or command, but neither comes. As your nerves accumulate, all the questions you should be asking- _ What kind of work am I to do? How are you going to neutralize a chip that could kill me? Who exactly are you? _ -fall by the wayside.

You hear his boots walking away again, and you wonder if he’ll ever speak at all. Is he so used to people just answering to his silent expectations he doesn’t need to? The line of thought is enough to distract you from the shock threatening to overtake your system, and you trail unsteadily after him. It’s only a few paces, and you listen as there’s a snap of fabric and a short sigh.

“You’ll sleep here.” You feel him step aside, and you blink curiously, walking forward. It doesn’t seem to be a room as much as it is a nook, a curve in the metal framework of the ship’s hull holding a bed. You lay your hand down on the carefully tucked sheets, trailing your fingers up to a blanket that’s been folded at the foot of the cot. You turn towards him, trying to think where to begin with your questions, but he goes on. “I’m going to set coordinates for our next destination. It would...be best if you stayed here.”

“...alright.” You sit down, finding the mattress plusher than you expected and sinking back. The weight off your legs has you sighing, head falling forward in relief. You listen to a slight strain of leather-perhaps he’s flexing his hands?-before you hear his footsteps begin to retreat once more.

You suspect he’s unused to company. Of organic life being so close.

Before you lose the nerve, you call softly, “Thank you.”

There is a slight pause in his stride, but he doesn’t turn back or reply. He disappears, climbing a ladder into a level above you, and you’re left alone in the cool dark.

You realize, after sitting in the quiet and listening to the engines hum to life, that your hand still cradles the trigger connecting to the chip. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? You swallow, fingering the small object and thinking of the procedure you’d undergone when they implanted the device at the base of your neck. 

The Mandalorian said he’d neutralize it, and you wondered if there would be pain.

That didn’t scare you as much as the idea of something going wrong when he would take it out.

You don’t remember laying down on the cot, and you certainly don’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps it was the shock, but you fell unconscious into a deep, dreamless slumber, curled in the nook at an odd angle. A firm hand on your arm woke you up, and though it wasn’t a tight grasp, and he didn’t shake you, it was still unnerving. Just a solid touch, and your eyes flew open.

“We’ve landed,” he says, removing his hand and stepping back as you sit up. You blink, wishing half-heartedly there was more light to make out anything around you, but you don’t think any amount of light would have prevented the sudden dizziness you feel when you stand up. Your hand strikes outward, landing flat against the wall with a loud slap to steady yourself.

That same gloved hand cups your other elbow, and you swallow when he doesn’t let go. “The jump from hyperspace can be a lot if you’re not used to it,” he says. You don’t even remember the ship taking off, much less any kind of jump. You wait as your bearings come back to you, your weight swaying between the balance of your feet. When you don’t move, his fingers flex gently around the delicate bones of your arm.

“I...I might need...help,” you finally confess, your stomach unsettled and your head swimming lazily like fish in a pond. How long had you been asleep? 

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, but his hand leaves your arm to lightly brush your back. You focus on breathing and begin walking forward. He guides you silently through the ship, down the ramp once he opens the hatch, and onto firmer, rocky foundation. Not unlike an anchor for a boat being tossed at sea, you don’t question how you’re able to let him guide you. 

Such a thing was so...intimate. Even dangerous, being vulnerable this way. You don’t want to think about it, so you take a deep, steadying breath and begin asking questions. 

The conversation is nearly one-sided from how little information he gives you, but the answers are sufficient enough. You’re on a planet called Avarla-7, which means nothing to you. You’re visiting one of his associates. You slept nearly 9 hours.

“Oh.” You listen to the crunch of rocks beneath both sets of your boots, considering the chill in the air. “It must be very late, then.” An answering hum from under the helmet is the only confirmation you receive. Something tickles at the back of your mind, and you incline your head towards the Mandalorian that walks to your left. “I...expected to be put to work rather quickly.” He doesn’t answer your vague comment, and you frown gently. “What kind of work do you need from someone like me?”

His hand presses slightly into the middle of your back, a bit firmer as you crest a small slope, giving you stability where there is none for you to find at night. “We’ll talk about it later.”

A voice calls out, wizened and deep across the expanse of dusty rocks, “I expected you back sooner. You are getting slow in your age.”

Your eyebrows raise, and you hear your companion beside you sigh again-this time in mild annoyance. You slow your steps with him, and you become aware that you have arrived near a building. Perhaps a tent, you think, with the sounds of fabric flapping in the breeze, but the noises of wandering animals nearby makes you think it’s a farm. Your curiosity heightens as you hear approaching footsteps, short and direct until someone stops in front of you.

“You have come to fetch the child, then? He has grown restless in your absence.” 

_ A child? _

The Mandalorian shifts beside you, and you think he must nod. “Yes. But I need to ask for your help again.” There’s a pause, and you can feel them staring at you. “She has a transmitter implant. Can you neutralize it?”

The associate steps closer to you, but you don’t feel threatened by the quiet approach. You fold your hands patiently, feeling steadier on your feet with the Mandalorian’s hand at your back. 

“I am called Kuiil. May I have your hand?”

It is not demeaning, nor implying you need the help, and in fact you feel safer suddenly than you have in...in  _ years _ . It’s hard to describe, the forthrightness and honesty in this voice that makes you feel a burgeoning amount of trust.

You hold out your hand, and the receiving grip is gentle and polite. He turns, and you follow, feeling like a young girl trailing after your father again, when you still had capricious bravery and the kindness of everyone near. Then, he says, “I will not neutralize it. I will remove it entirely. You will stay here until you are rested. I have spoken.”


	2. Go to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of background on our reader's past, plus lots of bonding with Kuiil and baby. Din gets protective.

Once, when you were a child and still had your sight, you had fallen from a window of a second story and broke your arm in a horrible way. It had taken months to heal, the bones having nearly shattered on impact. It still sometimes ached in the cold, as if the injury hadn’t completely healed and the delicate bones of your right limb were trying to knit themselves together again. You doubted the veracity of the feeling, because feelings are so very often  _ wrong _ , but having the chip removed from your body and the lost feeling it left behind was truer than anything else you’d ever felt.

It was as if the tiny bit of wiring and metal had held a part of you inside it, rather than the other way around. Once it was removed and the small incision was closed, you felt bereft. You expected the opposite, and as you listened to tools clinking quietly and the wind whistling outside the tent, melancholy threatened to overtake you. 

Freedom came at the price of abandoning the familiar. You could not ( _ would _ not) be ungrateful, but there was something to be said for being anchored, for knowing what would come next. Now you were left floating and unsure of the future, and you blinked away a small tear.

Kuiil, the abrupt but not unkind Uganaught with steady hands, had not said much during the short duration of the procedure. There was no pain, and you barely felt him work, even when he made the incision at the base of your neck. But what he did say left you softened and comforted.

“I worked three human lifetimes to free myself from servitude,” he said, resting one hand on your shoulder as you kept your head bowed forward. You didn’t feel as if you were placing your life in someone’s hands. In fact, seated on the stool with your hair pulled forward on either side of your face, you thought of your mother, braiding your hair by the fire when you were a girl. “It is not an easy path.”

Your mouth felt dry. “There are others who have known more cruelty than me.” 

Entire races and clans had been subjected to atrocities, and you felt suddenly small and undeserving of the kindness being performed. Why were you chosen, out of a cantina full of others who were subjected to unkindness? You had been the only slave, but you could not think of a good enough reason the Mandalorian would ask for you.

“Suffering does not judge its hosts,” Kuiil said, turning your shoulder so you were angled better as he worked. “The pain of another does not diminish your own.”

You had nothing to say to that, and you sat in humble silence. Something told you he had that effect on people. He placed a small bandage at the back of your neck, and when he deemed it finished, you gently pushed your hair back over both shoulders. Yes, that odd feeling was there, in your head, like you’d lost something important and couldn’t quite remember what it was.

Turning on the stool, you inclined your head down, only barely able to make out the shape of your new acquaintance. “Thank you, Kuiil. I owe you a great debt for this.”

“You do not. I have spoken.”

A gentle frown changed your otherwise placid features, but you were distracted by a quiet baritone asking from under a helmet, “How do you feel?”

The question, and the presence of the Mandalorian, startled you. You had not thought he was inside the tent, having retrieved a crate of some kind and moving outside into the night air. But now, he seemed very close, and you considered the question, unsure how to form a response.

“Lighter,” you finally said, deciding it to be the closest to the truth.

“That thing doesn’t have a tracking code on it, right?” the Mandalorian asked, his voice directed towards the Uganaught. You went to touch the back of your neck where the bandage lay, stiff and thick with gauze, but a leather glove caught your hand and pushed it back down.

It surprised you so much your mouth dropped open.

“It no longer receives a signal. It is an old model of transmitter,” Kuiil said, coming back towards you and pressing the small glass and wire bit into your hand. “They were outlawed, but not impossible to find.”

Your fingers turned the small implant over, frowning more in curiosity. 

“Are you now looking for two homes? A second clan to locate?” Kuiil asked, moving around the tent once more. Did he get visitors often, out in what felt like the middle of nowhere? “One for the child and one for your companion?”

You slipped the dead transmitter into your pocket and let your hands rest in your lap, perking up at the mention of the child. 

“What child?”

There is a long sigh of annoyance from the Mandalorian who now leans against the work bench you sit beside. “No. Just the one. She is going to care for the child on my ship.”

As if choosing now to be the most opportune time, a docile coo floated into the tent, and you recognized such a sound. What you weren’t expecting was such a small shadow-so  _ tiny _ , it didn’t even reach your knee!-to waddle up to you and fall against your leg. Your heart squeezed painfully, and you looked down to try and make out more of it in the dim lighting of the tent, reaching out a hand.

The child was not human, you knew immediately. Two small hands with only three fingers on each took hold of your pointer and middle digits, squeezing gently and gurgling happily at the attention. You waited, letting the baby tug your hand and sniff your palm. He had big eyes, you thought, when he pressed his face into your hand, and a small nose. It was when you reached down with your other hand to pick him up that you noticed something else.

“Oh my,” you laughed, touching two large petal shaped ears. They perked up and down as you stroked them, and he cooed again if trying to tell you he appreciated the doting. You found yourself smiling at the sweet noises the baby made, patting at your robes and nuzzling against your arm.

“It is a good choice,” Kuiil finally said. You’d almost forgotten that he and the Mandalorian were even there. “Now you won’t be remiss when you leave him alone. As you are often wont to do.”

Another long sigh forced its way through the modulator, and you frowned, looking up towards the sound. “You leave your son alone? That’s very unwise.”

The Mandalorian grunts sharply, “Tell me about it.”

You sense a story-or perhaps more than a few-behind the words, but the child trills up at you, tugging your hair playfully. 

“Don’t do that,” the Mandalorian scolds with a huff, sounding more concerned than annoyed. You suspect he’s never cared for a child before.

“He’s only a baby. He just wants to play,” you say patiently, leaning down until your brow brushes the top of his fuzzy head. It tickles against your skin, and you smile when he burbles curiously, brushing your cheeks with tiny fists grasping bits of your hair. “What is his name?”

There’s a definitive pause before the Mandalorian says, “He hasn’t got one.”

“Oh,” you murmur, lifting him up more securely in your arms. Some cultures did not name their young when they were born, you knew. Was that...a Mandalorian edict? You were interested, but it felt too personal to ask such a thing. The child is still touching your chin and jaw, fascinated with you. “I have not cared for children in some time,” you confess, frowning softly. “Though it’s not exactly something you forget.”

Kuiil has turned away, because he sounds farther than you remembered. “In your life, before now?”

You think to the large estate you served on, before the cantina owner bought you. “Human children, yes,” you admitted, inclining your head towards the child. You could swaddle babies, feed them and keep them happy-it felt so easy, back then, when you had more to smile about. Now, you felt the child you held was the reason for your smile, and it gave you an odd sense of vertigo, holding such innocence against your chest. “I doubt there’s many inconsistencies.”

“Just try to keep him away from frogs,” the child’s guardian muttered, making you raise an eyebrow.

“It is a good choice,” Kuiil repeated, moving dishes and rattling cups. His voice was so reassuring, and even though you weren’t entirely sure what he was referring to, you knew him to be true. It reminded you of the kind smile of an older woman with silver hair, more elegant than the moon that you had left behind. “Now he will never be alone.”

It made you wonder, much later, who he was truly speaking of.

“Come on, let’s go for a little walk,” you tell the baby, feeling restless and confused after your procedure. You are thankful neither man chose to follow, because your throat is growing a bit sore from talking. Or perhaps it’s just tight from swallowing down so much  _ feeling _ . 

You follow the sounds of animals, your pace lazy and purposeless. The child coos with content, and you tilt your head when he begins to wriggle at the sound of frogs nearby. You had not expected to be given employment, to be of  _ use _ . As dizzying as your liberation left you, this new purpose gave you a stronger spine. You stood taller, your hands sure once again.

This you knew how to do. To be kind, to care for someone. This you were  _ good _ at.

Had the Mandalorian known that? You frown in thought, shifting the child to your side before slipping your hand into the pocket of your robe. The trigger he’d given you sat heavy in your palm now, connected to nothing and no one. You glanced down at the child, who you could sense staring up at you.

Dropping the small device, you bring your heel down hard, breaking it against the dusty earth. It shattered with a satisfying crack, and you swayed the baby in your arms gently. “I knew a baby as sweet as you, once,” you tell him softly, turning your path closer to the sounds of animals. There were snorts and tired grunts, and you wondered what they could be. Some kind of cattle, perhaps. “But that was a long time ago.” 

Your boot bumped the edge of a pen, and you reached out with your hand to follow the perimeter of it. The baby in your memory had not lived to see its first year, sickly and weak, and you hug the child a little closer. The sadness you had felt, been nearly sick with it, had found you crying into the lap of your own guardian.

You hum as you walk, a gentle sway that hits the beat of the melody you sing wordlessly. The baby slows his wriggling even as the frogs chirp into the night air, and by the time you’ve rounded the animal pen, you’re holding a deeply sleeping infant.

Bootsteps crunch at the rocky terrain as they approach you, and you tilt your head up towards the Mandalorian. Footfalls were easy identifiers for you, nearly as unique as a fingerprint. “Kuiil has made you some food,” he says, his modulator making his words seem even more hushed. He takes a few more steps, and you feel leather gloves gently slipping around the baby’s tiny form, lifting him from your arms. 

There’s a sudden chill where he’d cuddled into your embrace, and you let your arms drop to your sides. “That’s very kind of him.”

“He likes you.” The words are said with a small amount of wonder, and you bow your head, following him as he turns toward the Uganaught’s tent.

“I like him, too.”

The Mandalorian lets you pass him, but you don’t miss the way he murmurs with a softened pride, “Everyone does.”

You realize, then, that you were not speaking of Kuiil, and you can’t help but blush.

The food is humble, warm, and filling, and even though you had slept on the ship, you feel your eyes begin to grow heavy. The Uganaught and Mandalorian speak quietly about upgrades and repairs his ship requires, and you stand and carefully gather your dishes, taking them to the counter. It only takes you a moment to find a sink to clean them in, hands smoothing over different canisters and utensils. When you are finished, you’re aware the conversation behind you has stopped.

“Where is the child?” you ask, returning to your seat.

As an answer, you feel your employer shift across from you until something gently bumps your arm. You blink, holding a hand out to tentatively find a smooth surface, dome in shape and floating beside you. Kuiil shows you how to open the pram manually, should the child’s guardian be away, and explains how it’s programmed to his communicator to follow.

You touch the closed lid of the pram, wondering how on earth it all came to be. “You said you’re looking for the child’s family. So you are not…?”

There’s a frigid silence across the table for a beat, but then you hear a sharp  _ thump _ and answering grunt. When he spoke, the warrior’s voice was low and guarded. “By creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, it is in my care.”

There’s an ache in your chest when he speaks, not from the words themselves, but the tone is that of a father. You can remember your own, speaking that way once, a mixture of valiance and fear that came with loving someone so deeply. 

Kuiil began to tell you the story of how he came upon the Mandalorian, his search as a bounty hunter for the asset that he came to protect. It sounded like a story, something someone would make up to entertain small children near a fireside, and you were just as captivated by it as a little one would be.

But a yawn that you tried to force down brought the tale to an abrupt end.

“You must rest,” the Uganaught told you sternly, standing from the table.

A frown curved your face, and you grumbled, “I slept already-”

“Show her to the cot in the back, since you have nothing else to do,” Kuiil threw over his shoulder to the seated warrior, and you had to fight a smile at the answering grunt. The Mandalorian was not used to being bossed about, that much was obvious, but it was both amusing and endearing to see him follow orders from the Uganaught so succinctly. 

A gentle shift of armor and fabric brought him to your side, and you stood up and followed the few paces deeper into the tent where it was nearly black with darkness. You reached out a hand, hoping to find something stable to tell you where you were. 

“To your right.”

You sat down gently, finding the mattress less comfortable than the bunk on the ship. Though, you weren’t sure you could call that one comfortable either. Your body was quickly sinking into exhaustion, though, and you moved until you lay back, folding your hands primly. You’d assumed at that point that your employer had removed himself, but then you heard a deep sigh as he plopped down beside the cot on the ground.

“W-What are you doing?”

There was a pause before he answered with a tired mutter. “I’m going to sleep.”

You turned onto your side, gauging where he lay on the floor just beside the cot. You tilted your head over the side, wishing you could make out his shape. “Don’t you want a pillow? Or a blanket?”

“Go to sleep.”

“But where’s the baby?”

“Sleeping.” He sounded more tired than you felt, but he somehow still managed to work a bit of irritation into his tone.

“I mean-”

There was a louder, gruffer sigh this time. “If he wakes up, you’ll know. Now be quiet.”

He was certainly right about that. You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep, but it felt like an awfully long time. Your eyes fluttered open when you felt something tickling your hand, which hung off the side of the cot. Morning light seemed to wash the tent of the darkness from the night before, and you made out the tiny green creature looking up at you, holding your hand. He stood balanced on the chest plate of his softly snoring guardian. The baby cooed and bumped his head against your arm, and you found yourself smiling, cheek pressed to the edge of the cot.

“Hello,” you whisper, voice hoarse but feeling renewed. Sometime in the night, confusion and uncertainty disappeared and were replaced with an odd peace. You had a place now, a purpose, and it was tugging on your sleeve and gurgling happily.

Shifting as quietly as you could, you leaned down and picked the baby up, bringing him up onto the cot with you. Several thoughts fluttered through your mind as you woke, mostly wondering what to feed the little one currently crawling along your bed, puffing sweetly as he explored the space.

Once you were fully awake, you shifted on the cot just enough to step over the Mandalorian. You froze when his breathing hitched, afraid you’d woken him up. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but as a warrior, you suspected sleep on the floor was probably better than none at all. You waited, listening for the sound of a stern reprimand, but instead, after another moment, his gentle breathing through the modulator had you relaxing. 

Before you left, you reached for the blanket on the cot, tugging it until it fell over the armored guardian on the floor. You tiptoed with the baby through the tent, only bouncing him to make him giggle once you’d stepped outside. In the bright light of the day, you could roughly make out the animal pen where you could see movement.

“Good morning,” you called to Kuiil, making your way over. The Uganaught was throwing bushels over the fence, and you could make out the larger- _ much larger _ -animals on the other side crowding to get their fair share. “I think it’s time for his breakfast. He woke me up. May I help you?”

“The child is an early riser,” Kuiil said, throwing another bushel of all manner of plants over the fence. Each one was bound with twine and held various types of desert flora. It landed on the ground before being torn apart by one of the animals who chomped at the herbs and shrubs loudly. You set the baby down beside you before kneeling down and grabbing one of the many groupings, tossing it over. “Where is his father?”

“Still sleeping. He seemed like he might need it.”

“Growing slow in his old age,” Kuiil snorted, and you smiled at his chastisement, picking up another bushel. “But sleep in safety is the most restorative.” 

You both worked in quiet for a while, the baby waddling over to lean against the fence just beside you to watch the large beasts eat. Kuiil described the blurrgs, even going on to tell you how he’d caught and tamed his first when he came to Avarla-7 to become a vapor farmer. By the time you were finished feeding the blurrg, you boasted a light sheen of sweat, and he sent you back to the tent with instructions on where to find bread and meat for the baby. 

The little one toddled beside you, and you could feel his tiny claw holding onto the skirts of your robes. You measured your steps, making sure you didn’t pass him, and by the time you made it into the tent, the Mandalorian was awake.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have just woken up, because he spun around with such violence you gasped and stumbled back a step, overturning the baby. Immediately, the child fell over with a whimper.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” you whispered, kneeling down quickly to gather him into your arms. The little noises he made as he tugged at your robe made your heart squeeze. “I’m sorry, please don’t cry.”

“I-Is he okay?” The worry in the Mandalorian’s voice touched you in a way you hadn’t experienced before, and when he stepped closer, you had to breathe through the shivery feeling climbing up your back to focus on the baby in your arms.

“I think so. Just startled,” you murmur, tracing the furrow on the child’s brow as he whimpered. You curved your index finger and bumped your knuckle against his mouth, smiling when he immediately began nibbling. “And hungry.”

“Oh.” The Mandalorian seemed to radiate determination, and he swung around as if on a mission. 

You moved towards the table, sitting down gently, and gave soft directions where Kuiil said he kept the fresh bread and cured meat. You listened to the sounds of dishes and knives clanking about, and when the child’s guardian approached you, he set a plate by your elbow on the table.

“Look at that,” you coo to the baby, letting him sit upright in your lap. He was happy to feed himself, you found, and the sounds of his quiet munching eased your worry. Your fingers drifted over the plate, barely hovering over the food, and you incline your head. “This is a lot for such a little thing.”

“It’s for you, too,” he murmured, sitting across from you. 

That surprised you, and you felt once more humbled by the kindness. A thought occurred to you, imagining his helmet and the creed he has sworn. “And have you eaten?” you ask, gently tearing off bites of the bread and eating them. He’d put butter on it, too, and it tasted sweet melting on your tongue.

“Yes.”

The three of you sit in comfortable silence, you eating bread and butter while the child eats what seem to be diced cubes of meat. A rather loud little belch signals he’s finished, and you cover your mouth to squash the giggle. You wonder if the Mandalorian smiles or laughs, if he watches the child with fondness.

_ He must _ , you decide, as he takes the plate away. 

It is nearly midday by the time you give your goodbyes to Kuiil. The child sits, perched in his pram while the Uganaught pats his head between his ears. When he turns to you, you offer your hand and smile when he takes it.

“Thank you, for everything.” You aren’t sure when the tears pricked your eyes, but you blink them away as hard as you can so they won’t fall when you press a kiss to his cheek.

Kuiil shifts, squeezing your hand before patting it with his other. “Should you grow tired of this Mandalorian, you will always have a place here.”

The two males did not say anything to one another, but you didn’t miss the way the armored warrior inclined his head in deference to his friend. For they were friends, you knew now.

The warmth blooming in your breast left you glowing, even long after you departed towards the Razor Crest. It was a quiet walk, which you were grateful for, mulling over the events of the last day. You waited as the ramp lowered, the hatch opening on the ship, but the Mandalorian suddenly stopped you with a hand. 

His other made a sweeping motion, and you could make out the dim outline of the pram being shuttled up the ramp. He turned to you, then, two fingers hooking on the belt slung around his hips that held weapons.

“Before we do this,” he says evenly, voice low and guarded. “I need to know something.”

Your eyebrows went up, heart doubling in pace. You clasped your hands in front of you, nodding once. “Alright.”

“Who are you loyal to?”

The question threw you, and you felt your mouth opening and closing as you grasped for something to say. The afternoon breeze ruffled his cape and your robe, and those were the only sounds in all the world, it seemed. When he didn’t qualify with anything, you shook your head.

“I don’t understand.”

He stepped closer, and you could see the gleam of the sun on his beskar chestplate. It wasn’t threatening, but it was intimidating. You couldn’t help it when you took a step backward. “Your accent betrays you,” the Mandalorian finally said after a long moment. “Kuiil noticed it, too. The way you speak...you’re gently bred. Educated. The planet you must have come from was full of the Empire.”

The pieces began to fall into place as his words nicked you. “Oh.”

He shifted, taking another step closer, but this time you didn’t back away. “I need to know the truth of you before I let you near the child.”

“I’ve already been near him,” you point out weakly.

“Alone.”

A sigh escapes you, and you nod. “Very well,” you murmur, thoughtful. You consider what to tell him, how to word the truth without garnering pity or suspicion. “My loyalty was bought when I was a child, as a slave to a household of an Imperial family. They...that is, there were no children.” When he said nothing, you flexed your fingers. “She could not…”

“So you are a foundling?” 

You raised your eyes at the softness of his tone, surprised. “They killed my family,” you said, just as softly, trying to imagine your mother and father. Their faces were almost gone from your memory. “But I was young, taken to be a handmaiden for the Imperial’s wife. She wanted a daughter, more than a servant.” 

The revelation didn’t seem to comfort him much, but you weren’t trying to do that. The truth is what he wanted, wasn’t it? You think for a long moment, whether or not to tell him everything. Was it necessary? Would he  _ care _ ?

“The Empire has a bounty on me and the child,” he finally told you, tilting his head. “You should know that I will not hesitate to protect him, no matter the cost.”

His implication could not have been louder if he’d screamed it. Then again, you already understood your place and purpose if you were to board his ship, so it was easy to take in.

“You should know, then, that I would not stop you.” The wind blew a bit more, causing your hair to float over your shoulder. Your fingers flexed, and you dropped your hands to your sides. “I would not see another child fall into the hands of the Empire from bloodshed.”

The silence that fell between you was devoid of the previous tension. Before you can question if you’ve passed this test of his, you feel the leather clad fingers of his hand gently take one of your own, and you suck in a breath. “Careful,” he murmurs, stepping aside so you can follow him up the ramp. “It’s a steep walk up.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Lovely Moons by missbluebonnet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704393) by [HiJustBrowsingThanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiJustBrowsingThanks/pseuds/HiJustBrowsingThanks)




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